Last night I was going to make dinner. It’s one of my husband’s favorites — an oven-baked chicken that tastes like it was fried. Yes, it’s damn tasty.
I had the bone-in breasts ready to go, or so I thought. Dun-dun-duuuuuun. I get those suckers out of the fridge and damned if they aren’t still frozen. I was vexed. This involves swearing, because with me everything involves swearing. I work blue.
Anyway, my eyes fall upon the Instant Pot my mother bought me — at my request, mind you — year-before-last for Christmas. Much to my shame, I’ve only used it handful of times because I’m lazy. Also, the damn thing intimidates me. Yes. Okay. I’m afraid of my Instant Pot. Especially ,the pressure cooker setting. That shit’s dangerous.
But I was desperate, and I’d heard a lot of talk about it cooking in nano seconds, yada yada. Crap like that.
Longish story short, the damn thing works like a charm. I was terrified the whole time that it might blow. Hey, I know this is illogical. It’s confession time already. Also, the kitten has to be everywhere, checking everything out. I had to cockblock his access to the machine. (See, told you I work blue.) It was a perilous time.
I’m still afraid of the damn thing. It hunkers there on the counter, waiting for me to make a wrong step. I’m pretty sure it’s doing stuff in the kitchen when we’re asleep.
Despite all this, I’m going to have to try it again. I’ll have no choice, because I know my lazy self. There’ll be more frozen chicken in my future.
Now here’s a kitten pic. The better to hide my shame.